


Pay Attention

by taranoire



Series: FenHawke Drabbles [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2590118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>number 4: Fenris is displeased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pay Attention

Hawke is ignoring him. Normally, this would not be such a grievous offense, but lately Fenris has felt rather territorial over the rogue and despises being left by the wayside. It doesn’t happen often. Hawke is just as attached to him, if not more so, and rarely leaves him behind if he has some task or other to accomplish. Perhaps that’s what makes this all the more irritating.

Hawke is filling his companions in on the exploits of the day, making at leasthalf of it up as he goes. They’re settled in Varric’s quarters at the peak of the Hanged Man, the room loud and raucous and filled with smoke despite the privacy. Fenris only tolerates the atmosphere. He does not enjoy it even a little bit.

The bottomless alcohol is nice, though.

He watches Hawke with heavy, inebriated eyes, drinking wine straight from the bottle. It’s Varric’s tab and he isn’t concerned about how costly it might be. And he’s not sharing, either.

Hawke is telling a very crude, drawn-out, fantastical story about a dwarf, a Dalish carpenter, and an Orlesian barber he allegedly ran into that day. (He did not.) 

“So the carpenter says—“

“Hawke.”

Hawke falters for only a second, not even losing his train of thought, before barreling onwards with the tale. Fenris’ eyes narrow. He suspects the rest of the table are not even truly listening; Isabela’s hands are wandering somewhere near Merrill’s nether regions (the girl does not look—entirely lost, for once), and the rest are so drunk they’re searching for reasons to continue their pedantic associated revelries. 

“Hawke?" 

Fenris glares at the rogue, not liking this at all, and raises his voice slightly. He only resorts to this when he’s pissed or there’s an emergency that needs drawing attention to. “Garrett.”

Still nothing, not even a turn of the head. His companions are overcome with laughter and stupidity at this point and all he can do is roll his eyes at them. Fine. He’ll do this the hard way.

He gets up from the table, walks calmly over to the Champion of Kirkwall, and silently, seriously crawls into his lap, straddling him. He puts his hands on his shoulders and (he hopes) quite pointedly stares.

Hawke knows he’s here—he has to. But he still won’t look at him. Fenris begins to suspect he’s playing some kind of game here, one that Fenris is neither aware of nor playing—though he is willing to, especially when he feels one of Hawke’s strong hands at his waist, possessively holding him there and keeping him from slipping off.

Interesting.

“Hawke, I think the elf is trying to tell you something,” Varric says with a smirk.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Hawke asks, grinning, and then raises his mug of beer to his lips.

Very interesting.

Fenris leans in close, brushing his cheek against the man's bearded one, slow and soft, before pressing a kiss to the space beneath his ear. He lingers, breathing in his heat and his scent, like dark spices and wood. Hawke's grip tightens on him and brown eyes darken but he continues to speak, fighting this, fighting him. It's a challenge and Fenris cannot resist it. 

The world melts to dimmed hues of gold and red, muted, the cacophony fading away until all that's left is Fenris' heart beating too fast and the solidness of Hawke beneath him, against him. He's very good at this game and right now, he doesn't care who knows it. In the background he's vaguely aware of the laughter dying down, of eyes on them, on him, watching him, how he moves, his mouth and his lips on Hawke's neck, his bare hands tangled in Hawke's hair, his teeth grazing Hawke's too-warm musky skin. 

Fenris loses himself and before he knows it he's slowly, slowly grinding down against the rogue, panting soft against his ear, and he whimpers when Hawke grabs his ass and squeezes in that possessive, firm way that says more than words can. 

"Fenris..." Hawke is looking at him now, eyes dark with want. It's this look alone (to anyone else, it might look like anger, wrinkled brow and heavy breathing) that makes Fenris' body thrum. 

Hawke's mouth is on his, all wet heat, and Fenris' thighs tremble on either side of his as he helplessly pulls him closer. Hawke is almost harder than he is, and Fenris shakes as the man holds him still, unable to move as he's kissed deeply, senselessly, until he's drowning in too much of him, too much of this. 

Hawke's voice is like velvet in his ear. "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?" 

He answers with a low whine, wants to kiss him again, but before he can Anders' voice jars him back to reality. 

"Yes, well, maybe you should--I don't know--get a room first?" 

Isabela lightly swats his shoulder. "Hush. If you don't shut up they'll leave."


End file.
